


Boy

by Ishti



Series: New Quest [2]
Category: Aveyond
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishti/pseuds/Ishti





	Boy

His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his azure robes. Ages ago, he might have stared at the ground as he shuffled along, wallowing within himself, his least favorite place in the world. Down this path on this endless night, however, he drinks in the sight of the crackling sconces, the trimmed grass, the stately palm trees, as if he might never see them properly again.

He angles his face to the sky and marvels at the stars. He wishes he did that every day when he was growing up. He might've developed a sense of humility, a sense that the most beautiful and powerful things in the world are far, far away, as yet unseen.

Now, he looks everywhere--except ahead. He refuses to face forward and stare across the lawn. The unfathomably long path itself is lovely, well-maintained sandstone, landscaped with shrubs here and there between the torches. He likes to look down at it, pick out the abstract swirls and shapes that look like faces or animals, do whatever he can to avoid the temptation to raise his sight.

For ahead, as he knows and hates, is his mother's house.

She taught him everything he knew about life, about people, about the world. She taught him disdain, disgust, hatred, arrogance, conceit. She taught him of the worthlessness of human consciousness and autonomy. She taught him that his value lay in how he met her wishes.

He's learned so much since then, and it's everything he sees in the trees, the stoicism of nature, the sovereignty of the wild. No human is made for subjugation to another human, by the whip or by the onus of descent. The magic in his veins was only strong when he _chose_ to use it, finally, after years of obligation.

And slavery? A travesty. An abomination.

But in that house ahead, he lived as a child, not the man he has become. He was haughty and bratty and believed that slaves were produced, like bourbon or blankets, to be used by noble folk-- _his_ folk. He was a nasty, spiteful boy, too insecure to admit the existence of his own insecurities.

The house is growing closer, as it hasn't in a long time. It's looming. Bile rises in his throat. He doesn't want to go back in there. He doesn't want to become a child again. He doesn't want to hurt anyone anymore, and he doesn't want to hurt himself. There it is: the sliding front door, pristine paper over a wooden frame, and it eclipses his vision. There is nowhere else to look.

"I can't go back to this," he whispers.

_Have you learned your lesson?_

"I...." He trails off, suddenly uncertain. Is there more? Has he missed something? Fireflies wink at him from the bushes, as if they know something he doesn't.

_Your silence tells more than enough, child._

He swallows, his eyes stinging. "I'll learn."


End file.
